


Shattered Teacup (Gather Yourself)

by ShowMeAHero



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Assassination, Assassins & Hitmen, Brainwashing, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Memories, Memory Loss, Prompt Fill, Repressed Memories, Winter Soldier!Bucky, a character study in bucky, bucky slowly falling apart and becoming the winter soldier, bucky!bucky, every seven years bucky gets wiped, watch as bucky slowly forgets himself and steve!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's mind gets wiped every now and then. Every new reset tends to coincide with the resurfacing of old memories - namely, of charcoal-smudged hands, of blue eyes, of faces long forgotten that refuse to leave the Winter Soldier alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered Teacup (Gather Yourself)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Sarah](http://nonetensnaresme.tumblr.com/), who requested:  
> “What about something like in the earlier times when Bucky was being erased and there are moments when he remembers Steve and every time before he’s wiped again he promises himself to find Steve again or something like that?"
> 
> Title taken from a quote from the TV show [Hannibal](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2243973/), in which Hannibal says, "Occasionally I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor. On purpose. I’m not satisfied when it doesn’t gather itself up again. Someday, perhaps a cup will come together." Obviously, I manipulated this for the title, but I think it gets the point across.
> 
> Russian translations in the end notes.

_1949_

“You can’t do this!” Bucky screamed, struggling against the restraints clamped around his wrists and ankles. _“You can’t do this!”_

“Я думаю, вы увидите, что мы можем,” a tall man said, his face nearly entirely covered by his tremendous coat. Bucky threw his head forward, growling deep in his chest.

“The war is _over_!” Bucky looked down at himself, observing the restraints. His metal arm was like a fresh stab in his chest every time he saw it, and he forced himself to look away. Steve’ll come, he thought to himself as they stuck something hard against his temples. “You have to let me go!” Steve’ll come, just like he did last time. He’ll save Bucky, just like he always has.

“Протрите его,” the man said to the woman beside him, and she threw a switch. Incredible pain began surging through Bucky, originating at his temples and pulsing through him, and he shut his eyes tight against it, and saw Steve’s face in his mind.

“Captain America’s going to come,” he said, his voice staggered and weak. “You’ll see.”

“Мы, конечно, будем.” Bucky felt something hard get shoved into his mouth, and he tossed his head back and forth, trying to force it out. When it proved futile, he settled, letting the pain course through his body, and, seeing Steve’s face in his mind, felt almost at peace with this, his certain death. He’d see Steve again, he thought to himself. In Heaven, or whatever came next, he hoped. Someone like Steve Rogers would definitely end up in Heaven. He’ll find Steve, he promised himself. Wherever he is - he’ll find him.

Everything fell away. 

* * *

_1956_

“Was the mission a success?” a disembodied voice asked in an unfamiliar language, and Bucky blinked his eyes open. He frowned at the language, confused by his own mental translation into English. He sat up straight and turned his head, and there sat a middle-aged man. He had a heavy mustache, and he spoke to Bucky as though they were familiar, but Bucky could not remember him. What he _could_ remember, however, was proper protocol, and so he nodded. “Good. Anything else to report?”

Bucky thought, for a moment. He remembered a face. _Steve’s face._ Bucky blinked and looked back at the man, momentarily stunned that he could have forgotten _Steve._

“Is Steve okay?” Bucky asked, in their language, forgetting his protocol. The man frowned and turned to murmur something to the man standing beside him.

“You don’t know a Steve,” the man assured him. Bucky paused, then shook his head.

“No, I do,” Bucky argued. “Steve. Steven Grant Rogers, I do know him, he’s-”

“He’s remembering again,” the man said, sighing heavily and standing. “He took out the agent successfully, he’s a good asset. We’ll need to get a new instructor for the Black Widow Program, I suppose. Wipe him, freeze him. We’ll get him again when we need him.” The man paused. “Nobody tell Natalia. We’ll push her through to the Red Room.”

A hand came into Bucky’s view, shoving a block of wood into his mouth. He was pushed back in the chair, and he struggled for a moment before restraints clapped over his wrists. He shut his eyes against the jolt of pain that came through his temples like lightning, and he made a promise to himself - not to forget Steve’s face again. To find Steve again. To make sure he was okay, like he’d been doing for years, like he’d-

Another jolt came.

Everything fell away.

* * *

_1963_

“Did he succeed?”

“Yes, but the bullet curved. Likely outside influence. They have a man pinned for the assassination, so we’re in the clear.”

Bucky’s eyes shot open and he sat up straight. There were hands on his shoulders immediately, and he turned to the one on his left, grabbing that person’s forearm with his metal hand and flipping them backwards. There were many more hands on him all at once, pushing him back down onto his back, and he struggled, but it seemed fruitless.

“You do a good job,” the first voice said, in clear Russian, and Bucky translated it into English in his head. The voice belonged to a woman this time, appearing over his head. She had close-cropped blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and Bucky quit struggling so much as he looked up at her. “We’re going to hold onto you, even if you do… tend to be a hassle towards the end.”

“Wh-” Bucky began, but his mouth was suddenly full of cloth. The woman clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

“Exactly my point,” she said, and Bucky stared up at her eyes. Blue eyes. And he remembered - Steve, Steve Rogers, Steve _Rogers_ , how could he _forget_ blue eyes like that. Bucky closed his eyes, seeing those blue eyes behind his own eyelids, because _how could he ever forget_. He knew Steve better than he knew _himself_ , and he- he knew better than anyone how much Steve would hate what he has become. Bucky stopped struggling entirely. He’d find Steve when he woke up again, he promised himself. He’d find him, he’d make things right. If Steve was even still alive. If Steve-

Everything fell away.

* * *

_1970_

The Winter Soldier marched back into the facility, threw his gun to the side, and ripped the mask off his face. To the first person who appeared before him - a young, dark-haired woman, walking at his side, matching his brisk pace - he spoke, but only to her.

“Дело сделано. Семья мертв,” the Soldier spat, and the woman nodded, jotted something down on a notepad, and vanished from his side. He continued on, past doors, windows, a painting-

The reflection in the glass caught his eye, and he stopped. He stared at the painting, which, upon closer inspection, turned out not to be a painting, but a detailed charcoal sketch. He frowned at his own reflection, then readjusted his focus, looking at the drawing. The smudges brought back a memory, teasing at the back of his mind; he shook his head, as though to clear it, but it remained.

Small hands smeared grey across a piece of cheap paper, and hands - hands he recognized as his own, two flesh-and-blood hands - wrapped around those small ones, stopping them. The owner of those small hands laughed, and the Winter Soldier remembered that laugh, he remembered- _someone_ , he remembered someone who- who _mattered_ , who he needed to get back to, and he-

“Something wrong, Soldier?” a man’s voice asked, and Bucky turned, breaking free of the memory’s hold to look at the newcomer. He was startled by his own mental translation from Russian to English, but was careful not to show it on his face.

“No,” Bucky said, holding himself tall, shoulders square, spine straight. The man peered into his face regardless of his answer and his stillness, then sighed.

“He’s coming back!” he shouted down the hall. Bucky shook his head, and the man beckoned. “Follow me, Soldier.”

“Yes, of course,” Bucky answered. He looked back at the drawing, then followed the man.

“Sit here,” the man instructed, and the Winter Soldier sat.

“Что бы вы ни пожелаете,” the Soldier said, his voice lacking any inflection, and he opened his mouth automatically for the wooden mouth guard they gave him.

Everything fell away.

* * *

_1977_

“When did he-”

“He _shot_ the _entire_ -”

“Fuck you!” Bucky spat, standing up. His head spun. _“Fuck you!”_

“What’s he-”

 _“You can’t do this!”_ Bucky screamed, and a fist landed across his face, knocking him aside. He straightened up almost immediately and launched himself at his attacker, even as a sedative was pressed into his neck. He blinked, and a blurry face swam in his vision. He stared at it, and it vanished. He felt a strange urge to smile.

“What is your name?” a voice asked, and he shook his head.

“I have no name,” he answered.

“What is your title?”

“Зимний Солдат,” he replied.

“верный.”

Everything fell away.

* * *

_1984_

The Winter Soldier became aware once more in surroundings that were unfamiliar to him. While not _new_ , this was not welcome - not when there was an American flag pinned to the wall beside him. He struggled, but he was strapped down. Again, not new, but unwelcome. He opened his mouth, and a rag was shoved in.

“You’re under new management, soldier,” a man told him, his accent heavy. The Winter Soldier placed it as southern American. “You’re still HYDRA, of course, but you’ve been relocated.” The man smiled, and his teeth were yellowed. “Welcome to the U.S. of A.”

The Winter Soldier spat the rag out and snarled, revealing his teeth. “Американский мразь.”

The rag was stuffed back into his mouth, and a mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving his nose and eyes untouched. He turned his face away from the American and found himself staring at the American flag again. It stirred something in him - something long-forgotten, something begging to be unearthed - but he buried it again. He was no longer in the business of affording himself the luxury of the individual. A bang echoed through his head.

Everything fell away.

* * *

_1991_

“Это делается.”

“American, please, Soldier, we’ve been over this.” The voice was familiar, and the Winter Soldier recognized Alexander Pierce. He shut his eyes briefly before reopening them and focusing on Pierce.

“It is done,” he said, his English accented oddly. His Russian had an American lilt, and his American a Russian one; he ignored his own quirks and characteristics in favor of numbness.

“Good boy,” Pierce said, rubbing a head over the Soldier’s hair like he was some mutt. The Winter Soldier did not move. “You have a new assignment. Sleep.”

“I still have time left,” the Winter Soldier argued, though not making eye contact with Pierce.

“You said a name,” Pierce reminded him, and the Winter Soldier did not flinch. “While you slept last night. _Steve_.” Pierce crossed his arms over his chest and stared the Winter Soldier in the face. “Ain’t no _Steves_ here. You’re starting to remember again.”

“I assure you-”

“No backtalk, Soldier. You’re being wiped.” Pierce flung a hand into the air, and the Winter Soldier was dragged away. Talking in his sleep, he thought to himself. Ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. He didn’t even _know_ a Steve.

Everything fell away.

* * *

_1998_

“Kill her.”

The Winter Soldier aimed and fired.

“Kill him, too.”

He aimed again. He fired again. The bullet found its home.

“In fact, kill all of them. I’d rather not leave witnesses.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Do as I ask.”

The Winter Soldier paused, for a split second, then took aim and killed the last people left in the room.

“You’re starting to question authority again, I see.”

“There’s no reason-”

“There is.”

The sound of glass or pottery shattering echoed as his head was smashed aside.

Everything fell away.

* * *

_2005_

The Winter Soldier trained the best. He taught the best, he worked with the best, and he killed the best. He was the best.

“I don’t understand why this is necessary,” the Winter Soldier stated blankly, watching as though separate from his body as he was strapped to a chair. His metal arm whirred as it was shoved into a new position.

“You have weaknesses,” Pierce reminded him. He picked up a remote and pressed a button, and an image appeared on the screen. An old black-and-white photograph of two men looking at a map on the hood of a car, both of them in Army uniforms. “Who are these men?”

“I don’t know,” the Winter Soldier answered. Pierce pressed a button again, and the two men were in a new place, a new position, new clothes. One of them had his arm thrown across the other’s shoulders. They were dressed down, in casual, soft-looking clothes. They were both smiling.

“How about now?” Pierce asked. The Winter Soldier shook his head. Pierce pressed the button again, and the new image had just one of the men. A picture that had clearly been colorized later, based on the unnaturally bright pastels of the image, of the taller of the two. His blonde hair had been colored an odd shade of yellow. The Winter Soldier shook his head. Pierce clicked again.

The new picture was of the same man in the photo previous, but it was older. The man was smaller, thinner, sicklier. He appeared weak and insignificant. The photo was curling at the edges. The man in the photo was smiling at the camera; he had an American military cap on, but it was too big for him, falling over one ear and his eyes as it tilted. Bucky blinked.

“Do you know this man?” Pierce asked. The Winter Soldier shook his head, and Pierce stepped closer.

“I know you do,” Pierce whispered near his ear. He stood straight up again. “Wipe him. We’ll bring him back out when we need him.”

Everything fell away.

* * *

_2010_

The Winter Soldier shot through a familiar body - hair red, eyes blazing, form perfect, he felt the strangest need to compliment her, maybe adjust her hips, angle her better. He blinked at her, then lowered his gun and walked back towards the road.

“Who was she?” he was asked, and he shook his head.

“I have no idea,” he answered. Pierce, sitting shotgun in the Jeep that the Winter Soldier climbed into the back of, turned around to face the back seat.

“That was Natalia Romanova, and she’s a traitor, but she’s a good one,” Pierce informed him, and the Winter Soldier remembered in a jolt, the Black Widow Program, back in Russia, and he remembered 1956, and he remembered-

“He’s tweaking,” the driver said, glancing back at the Winter Soldier before turning back to the ice-covered road. “Think we might have to reset him, boss.”

“I think you’re right,” Pierce said. He dug around in the duffel bag in his lap, then reached back around to the Winter Soldier and grabbed his right arm, his flesh arm, and injected something icy into his veins. The Winter Soldier stared down.

“I remember,” the Winter Soldier said quietly.

“No, you do not,” Alexander Pierce disagreed, turning back around. The Winter Soldier’s head tipped back, his neck muscles weak, and he shut his eyes.

Everything fell away.

* * *

_2014_

The Winter Soldier dragged himself down the sidewalk, limping past staring children and ignorant adults. He shoved a hand through his hair and flinched at the cold metal against his flushed skin. He stopped at the skyscraper he recognized from the newspapers, the A on the top bold against the sky. He had no reason to come here except for the strange feeling of needing to go, after everything that happened. His handlers, HYDRA, S.H.I.E.L.D., all of it - gone, in a heartbeat, and all he had was that _man_. That _man_ , who kept insisting he _knew him_ , and the Soldier could not shake the feeling that that was the truth.

He recognized him, he knew his face. He knew it, somewhere, deep down, and it was so achingly familiar that, when he saw it in the paper, he needed to find him again. Now that he had nothing, what did it matter?

He stood in front of the perfectly clear glass doors at the skyscraper’s entry for God knows how long before someone opened those doors and approached him.

“Are you looking for someone?” a helpful brunette man asked. The Winter Soldier hesitated, then nodded.

“Steve Rogers,” he stated, reciting the name from the papers, reciting the name from memory. “I’m here for Steve Rogers.”

“Is Mr. Rogers expecting you?” the man asked, clearly surprised. The Winter Soldier nodded, and the man began speaking into his headset rapidly, describing the Winter Soldier and asking if Steve Rogers wanted to come down himself. The response he got must have been confusing, because his brow furrowed.

“Come inside with me, please,” the man instructed, and the Winter Soldier followed him into the building to an elevator. He rode in the elevator up to the sixtieth floor of over two hundred and got off, following the man further to a glass-encased conference room. The man opened the door for him and motioned him in.

“Wait here, please,” the man requested, and the Winter Soldier nodded. The man vanished again, the door swinging gently shut behind him, and the Soldier turned to look out over the city. He stood there, staring, trying to remember the city he grew up in, trying to place it in the city he saw before him now, when the door opened again. He turned, and there he was. That man, that man who’s been _haunting_ him for _decades_ -

“Steve,” the Winter Soldier said, the name both familiar and foreign in his mouth, and the man strode forward before closing the Soldier in an embrace. The Winter Soldier stood still, his arms hanging at his sides, but he made no move to fight his way away from Steve Rogers.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Steve said, burying his face in his neck, and his blonde hair tickled the Winter Soldier’s face. The memory was sharp when it came back to him, but of _course_ he knew Steve, and here he was, safe after all this time, holding onto him like he’d done nothing wrong. That was so… _Steve_. “I’m so glad you came back.”

Bucky raised his hands and wrapped them around Steve - one flesh, one metal, both of them knowing Steve’s body instinctually. He pressed his face into Steve’s neck in turn.

“Me, too.”

Everything came back together.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not Russian by any stretch, nor do I speak it, so I used Google Translate. I apologize. The Russian should say, in order:  
> \- Я думаю, вы увидите, что мы можем.: "I think you'll see that we can."  
> \- Протрите его.: "Wipe him."  
> \- Мы, конечно, будем.: "We certainly will."  
> \- Дело сделано. Семья мертв.: "It's done. The family's dead."  
> \- Что бы вы ни пожелаете.: "Whatever you want."  
> \- Зимний Солдат.: "The Winter Soldier."  
> \- верный.: "Correct."  
> \- Американский мразь.: "American scum."  
> \- Это делается.: "It is done."
> 
> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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